Page 34 of Bleacher Report
Whether I’m in the right that his relationship with Bethany and New Jersey should be on the table, there’s obviously far more to this story that has him reacting like this.
I glance at the soundboard, wondering if I should pivot. Defuse. Walk it back. But I can’t—not completely. This wasalways going to come up. We both knew that. It's part of the deal. His fame is tangled in this mess. And if I avoid the hard questions now, what does that say about me? What does that say to my listeners or to the network who are watching how I handle hard questions with guests?
Not to mention that part of our deal was that we agreed to discuss Bethany, whether he remembers it or not.
“I’m not trying to blindside you,” I say quietly. “But this is the story people are already telling. I thought you’d want the chance to reclaim it.”
His jaw ticks. A muscle pulses in his cheek. And then, for the briefest second, something flickers in his eyes—hurt, maybe. Or fury barely held in check.
“You think I don’t know what people say?” he mutters, eyes flashing. “You think I haven’t spent four damn years waking up before the sun, working through injuries, rebuilding every scrap of what I lost—just to have it all reduced to locker room gossip and rumors about a woman I never touched?”
I swallow hard. “Then say that. Say it into the mic. Tell people the truth.”
He stands. Abrupt. The chair screeches against the floor.
“Hunter—wait,” I say quickly, my voice catching. “Please don’t walk out.”
He doesn’t move toward the door. Not yet.
“I don’t owe anyone the truth,” he snaps. “Especially not just so you can land your beloved syndication deal.”
That hurts more than I expect it to. Maybe because he just made an assumption that I have no heart or soul. That I’m willing to sell him out for a network spot. I just want to be taken seriously as a journalist who can give guests a safe place to tell their stories.
But he’s not done.
“I didn’t crawl my way back to the NHL just to be dragged back into the mud,” he says, quieter now—but deadly serious. “I won’t go willingly.”
His gaze cuts into me, sharp and clear. “So next time you come looking for soundbites, maybe pick someone who wants to be part of your story.”
Then he turns.
And this time, when he walks out, he doesn’t look back.
The studio door slams behind him, the walls shaking from his force, and the silence that follows is louder than anything he said.
I sit there, blinking at the empty chair across from me. The mic still recording. The flashing red light like a heartbeat.
And then I hear it—the engine of his truck roaring to life outside, loud and angry. It fades into the distance like a match lit and blown out too fast.
I sit there, frozen, the silence in the room deafening.
Just me. The mic. The blinking red light that shows it’s still recording, and the terrible ache of something I can’t name.
A text from my mom lights up the phone screen.
Mom:How’d the interview go? Can’t wait to hear it. I’m so proud of you, honey.
I don’t respond.
I just turn the phone face down on the desk and stare at the photo of my dad again. The edges are worn. His smile still steady. Still proud.
Even now.
I wish I could believe he’d still be proud of me after this.
Because I don’t know if I am.
Chapter Eight
